Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
Showing posts with label Battle of Delhi-1984. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Battle of Delhi-1984. Show all posts
23 July 2008
17 February 2007
A New Link
This is another link that turned up in our Google Alert for Khalistan. It is a really excellent account of what happened in Delhi, whether you call it riots or pogrom or battle by a nonSikh witness.
http://canadiansikh.blogspot.com/2007/02/he-winter-in-delhi-1984-long-legacy-of.html
http://canadiansikh.blogspot.com/2007/02/he-winter-in-delhi-1984-long-legacy-of.html
05 February 2007
Delhi - Again - TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE
Another possible flag for 
Khalistan.
This post was originally published by Mai in September 2006.
The link below shows some very graphic pictures , for example,
a dog eating the body of a shaheed in Trilokpuri. This link is not for people who have weak or queasy stomachs. http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.netphotograph.com/netphoto/Images/200312/12202003_n004_anti_sikh_riots_10665-004.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.netphotograph.com/visitors/search/searchimages.zhtml%3Fkeyword%3D10665-%26start%3D0%26display%3D1&h=118&w=175&sz=3&hl=en&sig2=isRlxQEH-Qdvafz6cXpDJA&start=4&tbnid=aEnPj78CUT9K-M:&tbnh=67&tbnw=100&ei=G4fGRYWxG82IJMeJ7P0N&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtrilokpuri%2B%2B%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den
(I know that this is an absurdly long address, but it's the best we know how to do.)
More pictures are also available in the links on the right, notably the Gatka Gallery. I know they are difficult to look at; I found the last photo on the Gatka Gallery page particularly horrifying. But...LEST WE FORGET...
Delhi
October-November, 1984
After 22 years, I cannot let go of those few days.
'Oh, get over it! It was all so long ago! Nobody cares about that stuff anymore. Anyway, India's changed. They even have a Sikh prime minister now.' (Puke.) Did he really apologise on behalf of the Indian government, as I have read?
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.
Thousands murdered, tortured, burned alive, children and husbands slaughtered in front of their wives. I know. I am one of those wives. We tried to fight the mob, but there were just too many of them. The death toll in our one home: two husbands, two sons, two brothers, two unborn children, whose first breath was their last.
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.
My sister/cousin, Suni and I come from fairly well-to-do families in Canada and India, so we did not, at least, suffer financial hardship, as so many of the '84 widows did. They lost not only husbands, fathers, sons, but also their livelihoods, and being destitute in India is its own special hell. It takes a very special sort of cruelty to kill off the men and leave the women to fend for themselves.
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.
At first I wanted vengeance. But - I have never told this to anyone - that was satisfied when the Air India plane went down in June 1985. My sister/cousin, Suni, who had also survived, and I were at my brother's home in Montreal when the news flash came on the television. We looked at each other and instantly surmised what must have happened and why. Our eyes met and we both burst out laughing. We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks.
I felt that the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. I spoke to our dead shaheed men and told them that now they could relax. I am not proud of this reaction. In fact, I am so ashamed of it that I have kept it all these years as my secret. Now I am publishing it on the Internet for the whole world to see. I pray that Waheguru will forgive me; I will never be able to forgive myself.
I remember on 9/11 seeing a Palestinian woman with large glasses and wearing hajib, dancing and laughing, celebrating in the streets. I heard so many condemn her, but I understood how she must be feeling. I wondered who she loved that had been killed and felt a close kinship to her. Like it or not, we are sisters in this. I fervently pray that you reading this never find out what can drive a person to such a reaction.
I am surprised how easily this all flows out of me. That day, I learned that I was not the nice, civilized person I had always thought I was. I have this deep, horrible ugliness inside my being that I dare not give expression to except here.
My husband, who is not Sikh, just came up and read what I have written. He almost never tries to order me around, but this time he said, 'Delete it!' and walked away. I know what he is thinking, that I have said that Sikhs in post 9/11 America are having a hard enough time and I don't need to aggravate the situation. But this time he's wrong.
To begin with, most Americans have no idea what a Sikh is. They see a turban and a beard and they see a Muslim. Also I think I have made it clear that my reaction was immoral, uncalled-for and disgusting. If any friends or relatives of people on that plane see this, please know that I am sorry for my reaction. I cannot take it back and I don't ask for your forgiveness. I have never been able to forgive those who cheered on the murdering bastards who killed my family or those who today have the nerve to say, 'Get over it!' I cannot expect you to do what I am unable to do.
But still:
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE
Note from Suni: Everything Mai has written in this post applies equally to me.
Khalistan.This post was originally published by Mai in September 2006.
The link below shows some very graphic pictures , for example,
a dog eating the body of a shaheed in Trilokpuri. This link is not for people who have weak or queasy stomachs. http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.netphotograph.com/netphoto/Images/200312/12202003_n004_anti_sikh_riots_10665-004.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.netphotograph.com/visitors/search/searchimages.zhtml%3Fkeyword%3D10665-%26start%3D0%26display%3D1&h=118&w=175&sz=3&hl=en&sig2=isRlxQEH-Qdvafz6cXpDJA&start=4&tbnid=aEnPj78CUT9K-M:&tbnh=67&tbnw=100&ei=G4fGRYWxG82IJMeJ7P0N&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtrilokpuri%2B%2B%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den
(I know that this is an absurdly long address, but it's the best we know how to do.)
More pictures are also available in the links on the right, notably the Gatka Gallery. I know they are difficult to look at; I found the last photo on the Gatka Gallery page particularly horrifying. But...LEST WE FORGET...
Delhi
October-November, 1984
After 22 years, I cannot let go of those few days.
'Oh, get over it! It was all so long ago! Nobody cares about that stuff anymore. Anyway, India's changed. They even have a Sikh prime minister now.' (Puke.) Did he really apologise on behalf of the Indian government, as I have read?
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.
Thousands murdered, tortured, burned alive, children and husbands slaughtered in front of their wives. I know. I am one of those wives. We tried to fight the mob, but there were just too many of them. The death toll in our one home: two husbands, two sons, two brothers, two unborn children, whose first breath was their last.
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.
My sister/cousin, Suni and I come from fairly well-to-do families in Canada and India, so we did not, at least, suffer financial hardship, as so many of the '84 widows did. They lost not only husbands, fathers, sons, but also their livelihoods, and being destitute in India is its own special hell. It takes a very special sort of cruelty to kill off the men and leave the women to fend for themselves.
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.
At first I wanted vengeance. But - I have never told this to anyone - that was satisfied when the Air India plane went down in June 1985. My sister/cousin, Suni, who had also survived, and I were at my brother's home in Montreal when the news flash came on the television. We looked at each other and instantly surmised what must have happened and why. Our eyes met and we both burst out laughing. We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks.
I felt that the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. I spoke to our dead shaheed men and told them that now they could relax. I am not proud of this reaction. In fact, I am so ashamed of it that I have kept it all these years as my secret. Now I am publishing it on the Internet for the whole world to see. I pray that Waheguru will forgive me; I will never be able to forgive myself.
I remember on 9/11 seeing a Palestinian woman with large glasses and wearing hajib, dancing and laughing, celebrating in the streets. I heard so many condemn her, but I understood how she must be feeling. I wondered who she loved that had been killed and felt a close kinship to her. Like it or not, we are sisters in this. I fervently pray that you reading this never find out what can drive a person to such a reaction.
I am surprised how easily this all flows out of me. That day, I learned that I was not the nice, civilized person I had always thought I was. I have this deep, horrible ugliness inside my being that I dare not give expression to except here.
My husband, who is not Sikh, just came up and read what I have written. He almost never tries to order me around, but this time he said, 'Delete it!' and walked away. I know what he is thinking, that I have said that Sikhs in post 9/11 America are having a hard enough time and I don't need to aggravate the situation. But this time he's wrong.
To begin with, most Americans have no idea what a Sikh is. They see a turban and a beard and they see a Muslim. Also I think I have made it clear that my reaction was immoral, uncalled-for and disgusting. If any friends or relatives of people on that plane see this, please know that I am sorry for my reaction. I cannot take it back and I don't ask for your forgiveness. I have never been able to forgive those who cheered on the murdering bastards who killed my family or those who today have the nerve to say, 'Get over it!' I cannot expect you to do what I am unable to do.
But still:
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE
Note from Suni: Everything Mai has written in this post applies equally to me.
01 February 2007
Aftermath
Now I complete my account of the events of November 1984. I last left off with Mani's death.
I lay down and either slept or passed out. I believe I slept because I was aware of the passage of time. When I woke up, it seemed that my mind had cleared a bit. I sat up, still on the floor, and looked around.
Bodies and blood everywhere. And the smell. I have never read a description of the smell of the aftermath of a battle; I think no one really wants to describe it. Blood, of course, and urine and, pardon me, shit, mixed with the odour of violent death. Yes, there is an odour associated with violent death. Having experienced it, it cannot be forgotten.
Suni was sitting in a large chair, seemingly uninjured, still clutching the Guru with both arms around him. She glanced at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. She turned her attention back to Guruji and ignored me.
I struggled stiffly to my feet and stood up. I had been badly beaten and, as it turns out, had gone into premature labour; in fact, it would take me many weeks to recover. At this time, though, I was experiencing no physical pain; my body must had produced a surfeit of endorphins.
From somewhere, I remembered that dead bodies were supposed to be washed with fresh yogurt (curds). We had some that Suni had been culturing in the kitchen. I went there and brought back a pail of water, some washcloths and the yogurt. Passing the body of the [male human] with the slashed neck, I kicked it in the head.
I went first to Mohan, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
Next, I went to Balbir, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
Having taken care of Suni's men, I went to my brothers.
I went to Bert, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
I went to Eddie, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
Last, I went to my men.
I went to Sandeep, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead. Last,
I went to Mani, washed his face with water and then yogurt and kissed his forehead.
Done with that, I picked up the bowl of water, now red with blood, and the cloths I had been using. Glaring down at the body of the [male human] with the slashed neck, I stopped for a moment. Its eyes were still wide open in terror, the mouth gaped loosely. I looked at it for a moment, then tossed the cloths and dumped the bloody water on it. 'You wanted our blood? There, have it!' I cried out loud, my voice echoing in the silent room. I thought for a moment of mutilating the body in the way HT had been forged for, but, as our men's bodies were left intact, I chose not to.
I walked to Suni. 'Do you have a picture of Guru Nanak Dev Ji or Guru Gobind Singh Ji?' Still with a blank dazed look, she reached inside her shirt and pulled out some pictures. I looked through them and took the two I wanted. I held them up and told them. 'You see what has happened? They're all dead. You better be proud of them.' I started laughing, hysterically, I guess, and handed the pictures, now bloody from my hands back to Suni. She stuffed them back down her shirt.
My work done, I walked back to Mani, lay down beside him and
...the next thing I knew someone was trying to pull me off his body and I was refusing to let go. There was a lot of confusion and yelling in Hindi, a language I had trouble understanding in the best of times. I was, by this time more dead than alive; I couldn't move or talk or even open my eyes. My thinking was not rational. I knew only that nothing would get me away from Mani. Then I heard Suni scream at me, 'Mai, they're going to burn down the house. If you're here, you'll burn with it! You've got to let them take you! We're Sikhs. Even Hindus don't commit sati any more!' Sati? She really didn't understand. Or maybe she did. Please, just leave me with my husband. Looking back, I'm horrified. I can only say that, from the beating and from a large loss of blood, I was near death and my brain wasn't functioning properly. People kept pulling at me...
The next thing I was aware of was being in a hospital room in Montreal, about four weeks later.
Suni has many times assured me that the house burnt down with the bodies of our men inside.
I would love to be able to tell you how we were rescued. Unfortunately, the people who saved us, for their own reasons, do not want that story told and have refused me permission to write it here. So let me just say that, while their story will remain unwritten, their courage and sacrifice will not go unacknowledged.
Reading this now, I realise how gruesome it is. I have tried to tell the story without all the grizzly details, leaving those to your imagination. I have purposely not written a blow-by-blow description of the actual battle; it would add nothing positive to our story. Suffice it to say we fought hard and skillfully, but were too badly outnumbered to accomplish much. Also, I remind you that this was a home invasion, we were in no way the aggressors. All peaceful means had failed. And we took up the sword, as we had been taught.
I am most proud of the way we fought, each of us to the best of his or her ability, no one backing off. None of us, living or dead, are victims. Our dead men were, each of them, true saint-soldiers, deserving of the title 'Shaheed,' and we can all be proud of them and all the others who died during this battle. May the rest of us never forget their sacrifice and may we all live in a way that honours them and what they fought and died for!
Up to this point, all these posts have been adaptations of entries in Mai's personal blog. We are trying very hard to get Maman (Vini) to write or dictate her story, which has never been recorded. We hope that will be our next post.
If anyone reading this wants to start their own blog, go to the top of this page and click on the words 'Create Blog' in the right hand corner. and you will get full instructions. You have a choice; if you choose, you can make it public as we have and others can read it, or you can make it private, so only those you give permission to can read it. So please, don't hesitate. If you have a story to record please do it before it's too late. Remember, if we don't tell our stories, only the accounts of our enemies will remain.
I lay down and either slept or passed out. I believe I slept because I was aware of the passage of time. When I woke up, it seemed that my mind had cleared a bit. I sat up, still on the floor, and looked around.
Bodies and blood everywhere. And the smell. I have never read a description of the smell of the aftermath of a battle; I think no one really wants to describe it. Blood, of course, and urine and, pardon me, shit, mixed with the odour of violent death. Yes, there is an odour associated with violent death. Having experienced it, it cannot be forgotten.
Suni was sitting in a large chair, seemingly uninjured, still clutching the Guru with both arms around him. She glanced at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. She turned her attention back to Guruji and ignored me.
I struggled stiffly to my feet and stood up. I had been badly beaten and, as it turns out, had gone into premature labour; in fact, it would take me many weeks to recover. At this time, though, I was experiencing no physical pain; my body must had produced a surfeit of endorphins.
From somewhere, I remembered that dead bodies were supposed to be washed with fresh yogurt (curds). We had some that Suni had been culturing in the kitchen. I went there and brought back a pail of water, some washcloths and the yogurt. Passing the body of the [male human] with the slashed neck, I kicked it in the head.
I went first to Mohan, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
Next, I went to Balbir, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
Having taken care of Suni's men, I went to my brothers.
I went to Bert, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
I went to Eddie, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.
Last, I went to my men.
I went to Sandeep, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead. Last,
I went to Mani, washed his face with water and then yogurt and kissed his forehead.
Done with that, I picked up the bowl of water, now red with blood, and the cloths I had been using. Glaring down at the body of the [male human] with the slashed neck, I stopped for a moment. Its eyes were still wide open in terror, the mouth gaped loosely. I looked at it for a moment, then tossed the cloths and dumped the bloody water on it. 'You wanted our blood? There, have it!' I cried out loud, my voice echoing in the silent room. I thought for a moment of mutilating the body in the way HT had been forged for, but, as our men's bodies were left intact, I chose not to.
I walked to Suni. 'Do you have a picture of Guru Nanak Dev Ji or Guru Gobind Singh Ji?' Still with a blank dazed look, she reached inside her shirt and pulled out some pictures. I looked through them and took the two I wanted. I held them up and told them. 'You see what has happened? They're all dead. You better be proud of them.' I started laughing, hysterically, I guess, and handed the pictures, now bloody from my hands back to Suni. She stuffed them back down her shirt.
My work done, I walked back to Mani, lay down beside him and
...the next thing I knew someone was trying to pull me off his body and I was refusing to let go. There was a lot of confusion and yelling in Hindi, a language I had trouble understanding in the best of times. I was, by this time more dead than alive; I couldn't move or talk or even open my eyes. My thinking was not rational. I knew only that nothing would get me away from Mani. Then I heard Suni scream at me, 'Mai, they're going to burn down the house. If you're here, you'll burn with it! You've got to let them take you! We're Sikhs. Even Hindus don't commit sati any more!' Sati? She really didn't understand. Or maybe she did. Please, just leave me with my husband. Looking back, I'm horrified. I can only say that, from the beating and from a large loss of blood, I was near death and my brain wasn't functioning properly. People kept pulling at me...
The next thing I was aware of was being in a hospital room in Montreal, about four weeks later.
Suni has many times assured me that the house burnt down with the bodies of our men inside.
I would love to be able to tell you how we were rescued. Unfortunately, the people who saved us, for their own reasons, do not want that story told and have refused me permission to write it here. So let me just say that, while their story will remain unwritten, their courage and sacrifice will not go unacknowledged.
Reading this now, I realise how gruesome it is. I have tried to tell the story without all the grizzly details, leaving those to your imagination. I have purposely not written a blow-by-blow description of the actual battle; it would add nothing positive to our story. Suffice it to say we fought hard and skillfully, but were too badly outnumbered to accomplish much. Also, I remind you that this was a home invasion, we were in no way the aggressors. All peaceful means had failed. And we took up the sword, as we had been taught.
I am most proud of the way we fought, each of us to the best of his or her ability, no one backing off. None of us, living or dead, are victims. Our dead men were, each of them, true saint-soldiers, deserving of the title 'Shaheed,' and we can all be proud of them and all the others who died during this battle. May the rest of us never forget their sacrifice and may we all live in a way that honours them and what they fought and died for!
Up to this point, all these posts have been adaptations of entries in Mai's personal blog. We are trying very hard to get Maman (Vini) to write or dictate her story, which has never been recorded. We hope that will be our next post.
If anyone reading this wants to start their own blog, go to the top of this page and click on the words 'Create Blog' in the right hand corner. and you will get full instructions. You have a choice; if you choose, you can make it public as we have and others can read it, or you can make it private, so only those you give permission to can read it. So please, don't hesitate. If you have a story to record please do it before it's too late. Remember, if we don't tell our stories, only the accounts of our enemies will remain.
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